LINCOLN  ROOM 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


MEMORIAL 

the  Class  of  1901 

founded  by 

HARLAN  HOYT  HORNER 

and 

HENRIETTA  CALHOUN  HORNER 


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JOSEPH  BHV[JAMIN 
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913 .71.  &  3  Lincoln.  7?oo» 7 

/US'*. 


THIRTY-NINTH 

ANNUAL 

LINCOLN   DINNER 


NATIONAL  REPUBLICAN  CLUB 

THURSDAY,  FEBRUARY  TWELFTH 

NINETEEN  TWENTY-FIVE 


WALDORF-ASTORIA 


1171 


GRACE 

Right  Reverend  WILLIAM  T.    MANNING,   D.D. 
Bishop  of  New  York 


SPEAKERS 

Honorable  CHARLES  EVANS  HUGHES 
Secretary  of  State 

"OUR  COUNTRY" 

Honorable  SIMEON  D.   FESS 

United  States  Senator  from  Ohio 

"ABRAHAM  LINCOLN" 

Honorable  HIRAM  BINGHAM 

United  States  Senator  from  Connecticut 

"THE  REPUBLICAN  PARTY" 

Honorable  WILLIAM   M.   CALDER 

President  of  the  Club 

Presiding 


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WILLIAM  M.   CALDER 
Ex-Officio 


THE    BEAR   HUNT 

<zAn  Original  ballad 
By  ABRAHAM   LINCOLN 

Copyrighted  by  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  February,  1925. 

Abraham  Lincoln  neither  wrote,  nor  attempted  to 
write,  much  verse.  What  little  he  did  write  was  perhaps  the 
product  of  a  sort  of  mental  exercise — to  gratify  an  impulse  to 
see  what  he  could  do. 

Writing  from  Springfield,  Illinois,  on  September  6,  1846, 
to  his  former  Springfield  neighbor,  Andrew  Johnston,  then 
living  in  Richmond,  Lincoln  refers  to  a  promise  once  made 
Johnston  to  'bore'  him  with  another  'little  canto  of  what  I 
called  poetry.'  The  1846  message  to  Johnston  fulfilled  this 
promise,  the  subject  of  the  poem  being  Matthew  Gentry,  the 
insane  son  of  the  leading  citizen  of  Gentryville,  Indiana,  where 
Lincoln  had  lived  for  some  thirteen  years,  from  young  boy- 
hood on.  In  1844  Lincoln  was  campaigning  in  Southern 
Indiana,  and  it  was  at  this  time  that  the  sad  condition  of  his 
former  schoolmate  was  revealed  to  him.  The  first  verse  of 
the  Matthew  Gentry  poem,  which  may  be  found  in  the  com- 
plete works  of  Lincoln,  reads  as  follows: — 

But  here's  an  object  more  of  dread 
Than  aught  the  grave  contains — 

A  human  form  with  reason  fled 
While  wretched  life  remains. 

In  the  letter  sent  to  Johnston  enclosing  the  verse,  Lincoln 
says:  Tf  I  should  ever  send  another  (poem),  the  subject  will 
be  a  "Bear  Hunt."' 

Some  time  later  Lincoln  wrote  'The  Bear  Hunt/  and  sent 
it  to  his  friend.  Whether  he  retained  a  copy  is  doubtful,  but 
Johnston  apparently  kept  the  manuscript  until  1869,  when  he 
passed  it  on  to  Thomas  H.  Wynne,  of  Richmond.  The  latter 
bequeathed  it  to  R.  A.  Brock,  of  Richmond,  by  whom  it  was 
sold  in  1905  to  George  S.  Hellman,  of  New  York,  who  in 
turn  disposed  of  it  to  J.  P.  Morgan.  The  original  manuscript, 
in  perfect  condition,  is  now  in  the  Morgan  Library  in  New  York. 

-CHARLES  T.   WHITE 


THE  BEAR  HUNT 

A  wild  bear  chase  didst  never  see? 

Then  hast  thou  lived  in  vain — 
Thy  richest  bump  of  glorious  glee 

Lies  desert  in  thy  brain. 

When  first  my  father  settled  here, 

'T  was  then  the  frontier  line; 
The  panther's  scream  filled  night  with  fear 

And  bears  preyed  on  the  swine. 

But  woe  for  bruin's  short-lived  fun 

When  rose  the  squealing  cry; 
Now  man  and  horse,  with  dog  and  gun 

For  vengeance  at  him  fly. 

A  sound  of  danger  strikes  his  ear; 

He  gives  the  breeze  a  snuff; 
Away  he  bounds,  with  little  fear, 

And  seeks  the  tangled  rough. 

On  press  his  foes,  and  reach  the  ground 
Where's  left  his  half-munched  meal; 

The  dogs,  in  circles,  scent  around 
And  find  his  fresh  made  trail. 

With  instant  cry,  away  they  dash, 

And  men  as  fast  pursue; 
O'er  logs  they  leap,  through  water  splash 

And  shout  the  brisk  halloo. 

Now  to  elude  the  eager  pack 

Bear  shuns  the  open  ground, 
Through  matted  vines  he  shapes  his  track, 

And  runs  it,  round  and  round. 

The  tall,  fleet  cur,  with  deep-mouthed  voice 

Now  speeds  him,  as  the  wind; 
While  half-grown  pup,  and  short-legged  fice ' 

Are  yelping  far  behind. 

1  A  small  dog  of  nondescript  breed.      Local,  U.  S.  A. — The  Editor 


And  fresh  recruits  are  dropping  in 

To  join  the  merry  corps; 
With  yelp  and  yell,  a  mingled  din — 

The  woods  are  in  a  roar — 

And  round,  and  round  the  chase  now  goes, 

The  world  's  alive  with  fun; 
Nick  Carter's  horse  his  rider  throws, 

And  Mose  Hill  drops  his  gun. 

Now,  sorely  pressed,  bear  glances  back, 

And  lolls  his  tired  tongue, 
When  as  to  force  him  from  his  track 

An  ambush  on  him  sprung. 

Across  the  glade  he  sweeps  for  flight, 

And  fully  is  in  view — 
The  dogs,  new  fired  by  the  sight 

Their  cry  and  speed  renew. 

The  foremost  ones  now  reach  his  rear; 

He  turns,  they  dash  away, 
And  circling  now  the  wrathful  bear 

They  have  him  full  at  bay. 

At  top  of  speed  the  horsemen  come, 

All  screaming  in  a  row — 
'Whoop!'  'Take  him,  Tiger!'  'Seize  him,  Drum!' 

Bang — bang!  the  rifles  go! 

And  furious  now,  the  dogs  he  tears, 

And  crushes  in  his  ire — 
Wheels  right  and  left,  and  upward  rears, 

With  eyes  of  burning  fire. 

But  leaden  death  is  at  his  heart — 

Vain  all  the  strength  he  plies, 
And,  spouting  blood  from  every  part, 

He  reels,  and  sinks,  and  dies! 

And  now  a  dinsome  clamor  rose, — 

'But  who  should  have  his  skin?' 
Who  first  draws  blood,  each  hunter  knows 

This  prize  must  always  win. 


But,  who  did  this,  and  how  to  trace 
What 's  true  from  what 's  a  lie, — 

Like  lawyers  in  a  murder  case 
They  stoutly  argufy. 

Aforesaid  fice,  of  blustering  mood, 

Behind,  and  quite  forgot, 
Just  now  emerging  from  the  wood 

Arrives  upon  the  spot. 

With  grinning  teeth,  and  up-turned  hair 
Brim  full  of  spunk  and  wrath, 

He  growls,  and  seizes  on  dead  bear 
And  shakes  for  life  and  death  — 

And  swells,  as  if  his  skin  would  tear, 
And  growls,  and  shakes  again, 

And  swears,  as  plain  as  dog  can  swear 
That  he  has  won  the  skin! 

Conceited  whelp!  we  laugh  at  thee, 

Nor  mind  that  not  a  few 
Of  pompous,  two-legged  dogs  there  be 

Conceited  quite  as  you. 


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